So, I sent them away, told them I'd finish it, and gave her hope when there was none. I never expected her to survive. The odds were impossible.
And now she's back, more beautiful than I thought possible. More dangerous than I imagined. Moreeverything.
I finish my second drink and set the glass down. I have a decision to make.
I can tell the Pakhan and have her eliminated. Finish what should've been finished ten years ago.
Or I can keep her secret. Keep her safe. Keep her close.
Keep her.
The smart choice, the loyal choice, is obvious. The choice that keeps me alive and in the Pakhan's good graces.
But when I close my eyes, I see her. Fifteen years old, broken and bleeding in the desert, looking up at me with eyes that should've been dead but weren't. And I see her now, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure , looking at me like I'm the only thing standing between her and death.
She's come back for revenge. And the fucked-up part?
I want to help her. To watch her succeed. To be there when she takes down the Pakhan and everyone who hurt her.
I want to be hers the way she's already mine.
I go to bed that night with my phone in my hand, the Pakhan's number on the screen. One call, that's all it would take. One call and she's dead by morning.
I don't make the call.
Instead, I lie there in the dark thinking about a girl I saved once. Thinking about a woman I want now. Thinking about all the ways this is going to end badly and not caring even a little bit.
She's going to be the death of me.
And I can't fucking wait.
CHAPTER 3
Sofiya
SONG: SEVEN DEVILS BY FLORENCE + THE MACHINE
I standin front of my bathroom mirror and don't recognize the woman staring back. This happens almost every day, this moment of dissonance where I see my face and my brain has to catch up with reality. The features are the same, but the context keeps shifting. Ten years ago, I was Yelena—a girl with a mother and a future that made sense before someone snatched it all away.
Now I'm Sofiya, a woman whose entire existence is choreographed to move me closer to a single moment.
I splash cold water on my face and watch the droplets cascade down my skin like tiny surrenders. The water is ice-cold and I shiver. I keep my apartment frigid on purpose . I read somewhere that cold exposure strengthens resilience, that it conditions the nervous system to stay calm under stress. Whether that's scientifically true doesn't matter as much as the ritual itself. Every morning, I wake to cold and force myself to endure it.
Most of my income goes to the electricity bill, but I care nothing for luxury anymore. I lived my first fifteen years drowning in decadent luxury, and what did it get me in the end?
My apartment is small but efficient, where everything serves a single purpose. The bedroom holds a bed, a nightstand, and a lamp. The kitchen contains only the bare minimum, a stove, a refrigerator, a counter scarred with use. There's no television, no art on the walls, no photographs of people or places. The only space that deviates from this stark aesthetic is my training room, which used to be a second bedroom but now serves as the place where I keep the parts of myself best hidden.
That's where I spend the next two hours.
My training routine is methodical, obsessive, and designed to keep my body in peak condition like a weapon I'm constantly sharpening. I start with stretching—deep hamstring work, hip openers, shoulder mobility exercises that make my joints crack and pop. Every muscle group gets attention, gets prepared for what's coming. My body resists at first, tight from sleep and the stress I carry like a second skeleton, but I push through the resistance until movement becomes fluid instead of forced.
Then comes the cardio, which I hate but need. I run on a small treadmill meant for standing desks, the kind office workers use to feel better about their health. The space is cramped, so I have to modify my stride with controlled movements that burn through my calves. My lungs expand and sweat beads on my skin.
After cardio, I move to strength training with the equipment I've collected over the years, dumbbells, a pull-up bar, which I installed myself , resistance bands in various tensions, and a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling like a body waiting for punishment. I work my legs with squats and lunges that make my thighs burn.
This is where I rebuilt myself. After the hospital released me, after weeks of healing from broken bones, knife wounds and internal damage that seemed impossible to repair, after I ran away from the foster home with stolen money anddetermination, I became obsessed with building a body that could never be broken again. A body that would be strong enough to carry the weight of what it needed to do.
I taught myself to fight through any means I could. I discovered training videos online and practiced them in bathrooms and closets and empty rooms where no one could see the quiet girl teaching herself violence. I saved money from shitty jobs that paid under the table and took classes at gyms where no one asked questions about why someone so young came in alone with bruises already forming. I learned boxing, kickboxing, and most importantly stamina—how to outlast an opponent, how to take a hit and keep moving forward. I mastered reading an opponent's movements like a second language. I discovered violence is just another form of communication, and if you study it long enough, you become fluent.
